


Variations on "Messiah" (or, Handel wept)

by thebeespatella



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Asphyxiation, BDSM, Boners, Caning, Canon-Typical Violence, Come Eating, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Hannibal has Feelings, Humiliation, Licking?, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Masturbation, Someone Help Will Graham, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 15:59:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6201718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeespatella/pseuds/thebeespatella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>A session</em>.</p><p>Two innocuous little words. If anybody else read them, they’d assume it was therapy, or <em>conversations</em>, as polite society would have it. Well, Will amends, traditional psychotherapy. Fuck polite society. Certainly he's <em>in process, </em>working out some issues when he sees Hannibal, but he doubts any other therapist keeps a flogger in a locked cabinet in their office.</p><div class="center">
  <p>--</p>
</div>Will misbehaves, and Hannibal brings him back to earth. Set after 1.09 "Trou-Normand"; inspired by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5093210/chapters/11712776">Discipline</a> by <a href="http://www.em-c-writes.tumblr.com">em-c-writes</a>.
            </blockquote>





	Variations on "Messiah" (or, Handel wept)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Discipline](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5093210) by [clicktrack_heart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clicktrack_heart/pseuds/clicktrack_heart). 



> Thank you for letting me play in your universe, and encouraging me all the way! This may work as a stand-alone piece—essentially, the premise is that they're in an established BDSM-type relationship at this point. But I would highly recommend everyone read the original fic, because it's gorgeous and lovely. 
> 
> Also dedicated to [strangestorys](http://archiveofourown.org/users/strangestorys/pseuds/strangestorys), my blessed porn godmother.

He gets the text at 10:37 a.m., standing behind the lectern to check it discreetly. Only two people would text him at this time; admittedly, he’s hoping for one over the other. His mouth pitches at something near a smile when he sees it’s from Hannibal.

_Will—if you are free for a session this evening, I would like to see you. 8:30 p.m. Please let me know._

Will shoves his phone back into his pocket and bites his lip. The class is still mindlessly copying down everything on the PowerPoint, and he feels an irrational spike of irritation. He’d asked them to formulate questions, but instead they were taking words from his hand like goddamn sheep. “Two more minutes,” he says. His blazer feels heavy, his tie too tight around his neck.

 _A session_.

Two innocuous little words. If anybody else read them, they’d assume it was therapy, or _conversations_ , as polite society would have it. Well, Will amends, traditional psychotherapy. Fuck polite society. Certainly he's _in process,_ working out some issues when he sees Hannibal, but he doubts any other therapist keeps a flogger in a locked cabinet in their office.

He shivers at the thought. Last time he’d stood, body stretched so he teetered on his toes, clinging to the highest rung on the ladder he could reach as Hannibal flogged him, first his back, then his belly, the soft swish the only omen of the stinging pain that came seconds after. Pain so bright it blurred to become faceless, until all he knew was sheer sensation. He’d watched the firm twist of Hannibal’s wrist before the flogger came down across his stomach. He can still feel the phantom pain of it, although all that remains are bruises on his hips from where he’d pressed too hard into the ladder.

_Ah—please!_

_Good boy._

Arousal surges in his veins at the memory like heroin in a junkie’s tourniquet-tied arm. He has to shuffle behind the desk under the pretense of taking a sip of coffee. It’s lukewarm and he can feel the unfiltered grounds in his mouth, like a mouthful of gravel. _Sensation._ He swallows it anyway. Standing behind the desk isn’t helping; the edge of the desk is just pressing into his bruises, and the jolt of pain only makes his dick harder.

“Ah—that’s, that’s all,” he says, surprising even himself with the roughness in his voice. “Just—write down your questions, we’ll cover them on Wednesday. Class dismissed.”

“Professor Graham—”

“Save it for Wednesday, Ms. Mapp,” he snaps, then closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please. Save it for Wednesday, please.”

It’s 10:49 a.m. He hobbles after the last straggling student, holding his messenger bag in front of him until he makes it to the men’s room, slamming the door shut behind him and throwing the lock closed behind him in a familiar motion.

Will has been in here often, hands braced against the tile wall, empty toilet bowl staring up at him with porcelain hollow face. One mangled corpse too many. Too little sleep. A killer’s smile that won’t leave his face. But today his breath is heaving, not his stomach. The white smell of bleach is still tinged with the emptiness of the toilet as it fills his nose.

His fingers feel like fish as he fumbles for his phone, undoes his belt and zipper in an efficient _click snick_ of metal. He shoves his pants and boxers down to his knees as the phone rings in his ear.

_“Hello.”_

Jesus Christ, he’s already so fucking hard, and then that voice, the voice that tells him what to do—

The front tails of his shirt brush his erection as he leans heavily back against the door, and he spits in his palm and begins to stroke. The phone screen is slick with sweat.

“ _You have reached Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”_

Will groans; realizes too late he’d made the sound out loud.

“ _Please leave your number and state the reason for your call. I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you.”_ There is a _fshhh_ white noise pause that feels like an eon before the beep. “H-Hannibal,” he manages, dragging a slow, tight hand around his cock. The thought of those hands, elegant, severe, digging into his flesh—

“I—the purpose of my call.” A gasping laugh. His breathing is ragged, a jittering seismograph-shudder. “You texted me, and I—I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knows it’s better to keep quiet, but he’s just used to being open with Hannibal, now. “And I thought about— _last time—_ the way you— _ah—_ ” Jerking off used to be perfunctory. Now it is performative. “You always make me feel s-so good.” He pants harshly, breath fogging up his glasses. With a choked noise, he tightens his grip around his cock, flicks his thumb over the head, and his hips shove forward to fuck his fist. “Please—p-please—” The feeling jumps up his spine like a firework blasted into the night sky, and then it explodes into bright colors behind his eyes as he says—“I’m—I’m always free—for you.”

Slowly, Will opens his eyes as the dial tone goes dead. His dick is softening now against his thighs, and there is come all over his hand, some spattered glistening against the toilet seat. The bathroom door swings open, but thankfully, the footsteps come in to stand near the urinals. He quickly wipes off his hand and the seat, and tugs his pants up as hastily as possible. Maybe he does up his fly, maybe he doesn’t. He flushes all evidence away.

The other man is still there, washing his hands as Will goes to do the same. Their eyes meet in the mirror, and some part of him whispers hotly, _He knows._ The thought sends a new tickle of arousal along his neck, and Will snatches too many paper towels from the dispenser and rushes out.

That may have been impulsive.

&

Will knows better than to be late, so he parks in front of Hannibal’s office at 8:27 p.m., straightens his hair and in a last impulse, leaves his jacket in the car. He won’t need it anyway. His—indiscretion—weighs at the forefront of his mind like a hunger headache, and he rubs mindlessly at the back of his neck as he paces in the narrow space between the two ridiculous little couches in Hannibal’s waiting room. In other therapist’s offices, there was music, or a white noise machine in the waiting room, something to ensure privacy. Hannibal only has a solid oak door that he’d had replaced after Will’s first session. It’s heavier and grander than the old one.

(“It’s soundproof,” Hannibal had said.

Will looked at him accusingly. “Did you—”

“No,” Hannibal said. “I merely found my privacy precautions to be lacking.” Then that infernal little smirk—“But feel free to be as loud as you want.”)

At precisely 8:30 p.m., Hannibal swings open the heavy door. “Will.”

Will raises his eyes from where they’d been tracing the pattern in the carpet. Hannibal’s eyes betray nothing, and so he goes into the office and stands in his customary spot next to the light blue couch.

“Strip,” says Hannibal. Will watches him even as he does as he’s told. Hannibal carefully removes his own jacket—double breasted purple plaid, today—and tilts his head as he works loose the wide knot of his tie.

They each have their rituals. Will folds his clothes into a neat square that he always sets behind the couch, and Hannibal meticulously removes his tie, jacket, and waistcoat, draping them across the back of his office chair. Then he removes one cufflink, then the other, and neatly folds his shirtsleeves in even increments above his elbows. Altogether, Will has more to do, but he’s always done first. So he kneels where he’s been instructed, hands carefully folded on his knees.

The first time they’d done this, he had only been instructed to undress to his undergarments as the air conditioner blasted away. After a few sessions, they’d adjusted the thermostat to reach comfortable equilibrium for Hannibal’s exertions and Will’s naked form.

Will wonders if he keeps it at the same temperature all day, or if he changes it before their _sessions_. He licks his lips.

Hannibal finally walks over to him. His shoes make a soft round sound against the floor, and they stop just inches from Will’s knees. Will closes his eyes against where he can see the vague imprint of his reflection in the burnished leather. He feels a heavy hand in his hair, and leans into the touch. The shoes move away, back towards the desk.

“Will,” Hannibal says. “Come here.”

Will crawls. The hardwood is as unforgiving against his knees as ever, but the well-worn bruise of it helps him settle into sensation.

“Stand. In front of the desk. Hands behind your back.”

He hastens to comply, standing as straight as possible, folding his hands neatly. Every muscle is rapt under Hannibal’s surgical eye.

They don’t move for a long moment, until Hannibal opens a desk drawer, and Will draws a breath—

Hannibal places a small object on the table. Will has to blink before he realizes it’s Hannibal’s phone. The flush starts, a poison-ivy itch on his cheeks, spreading speedily down to turn his chest pink with writhing shame. It seems insane, now, to have called—like some other, reckless spirit had shackled his hands. But he knows. It’s his own appetite, and to try make excuses would be futile, and more embarrassing besides.

Hannibal’s eyes don’t leave his face, even as he unlocks the phone and presses _Play._

“ _Ah—the purpose of my call._ ” Will flinches at the sound of his own voice, thin over speakerphone, tight with need. His breathing is obnoxiously loud coming from the phone, brushing static as the seconds tick by in an excruciating, even march. “ _You texted me, and I—”_ Pant, pant, pant. Will thinks he can hear the sound of his belt jangling in the background, a weak counterpoint to the jagged edges of his voice. “ _Couldn’t stop thinking about you. And I thought about—_ last time—”

Will thinks he might really bite through his lip. He sounds pathetic. There is no better word for it. The threat of tears—for apology? For regret?—burns behind his eyes. The blush is inescapably bright against the skin of his cheeks. He couldn’t bear to look at Hannibal now, even if he were allowed to.

“ _The way you—ah—you always make me feel s-so good._ ” The sibilant stutter is paper cut-sharp in the recording. “ _Oh…!_ ” The noise is dirty, almost plastic in its pornography. He can’t help himself—white antiseptic smell, _You have reached Dr. Hannibal Lecter—_ even as a bead of sweat rolls down his chest and he presses his lips together, his cock rises half hard between his legs, jutting obscenely to press against the edge of the desk.

“ _Please—p-please—”_ Another moan. This time Will can’t avoid the wince, wonders where the closest black hole is, so he can throw himself in it. It’s—so much. It’s like—it’s like wetting yourself, the shame sticking wet and persistent against your skin.

“ _I’m—I’m always free—for you._ ”

He lets his posture sag a little. Thankfully, it’s over—but the remnants of his tinny lewdness reverberate in the silence around them like the shimmer of a gong. He wants to _move_ , to wrap his arms around himself, run off naked into the night. Anything that will make him feel less like a moth pinned beneath the needle of Hannibal’s gaze.

But that’s against the Rules. So instead he clenches his jaw so tight it hurts, and screws his eyes shut as though it will protect him. He feels very much like a schoolboy awaiting punishment, and it only aggravates the unpleasant squirming in his gut.

“Will.”

He tries to think of anything else, anywhere else, stares at the black screen of the phone. Suddenly, _blink_ , and it’s Miriam Lass’s severed arm playing a recording—“Jack, Jack _—_!”

_No, no, no, you don’t belong here—_

“Will. Look at me.”

He raises his head. The resonant syllables tether him close to ground. Hannibal’s eyes are as black as he’s ever seen them. Hannibal leans back in his chair, and it creaks. “I always enjoy the sounds of your pleasure,” he says, and Will burns hotter, if that’s even possible. “What helpless little noises.” Hannibal’s stare and voice are one, trepanning through his sternum to grip the center of him. “Nothing could be more beautiful.”

He lets Will steep in the boiling words, then stands, ambling to the locked cabinet. “On your hands and knees. On the chaise lounge.”

He means the light blue couch. Will hesitates for a moment, faced with the ocean of floor—should he go for speed or the Rules?—and settles on both, crawling as fast as his aches allow. He positions himself carefully on the couch, a small arch in his back, knees a shoulder’s width apart, feet laying flat against the upholstery. He knows not to move as he hears the gentle tumble of the lock, the seductive rustle of leather as Hannibal selects from an array of instruments. Will stares straight ahead. The ladder is in front of him today, creating small picture frames that remind him of graph paper.

Hannibal’s legs are within his line of vision today. In his long and elegant hand, he holds a long and elegant cane, whip-thin, _tap tap tap_ against the side of his shoe. Will sucks in an involuntary gasp at the memory of the cane. Surely he hadn’t been _that_ bad? He wants to plead, negotiate, but as steady as his pulse— _he’s giving you no less than you deserve._

“Exquisite,” Hannibal murmurs, draping a hand in Will’s curls, tracing a firm line down his spine. “Nonetheless. What is to be done about your _disobedience_?”

Hannibal’s hand is warm against the small of his back. Will feels his skin shrink, and he understands. Tension leaves his body, hips dipping lower to deepen the arch in his back.

“I should be punished.”

“Why?”

“I was reckless. Selfish. _Disobedient._ ”

“And you’re usually so good for me.” Hannibal walks to stand directly behind him. “I’m sorry, Will. But you know the rules. How many minutes early did you dismiss your class?”

“Eleven minutes.”

He stills himself and the thin swish of the cane behind him. Hannibal makes a noise of disapproval. “Eleven minutes. FBI trainees were denied eleven minutes of learning because you went to masturbate in a bathroom.”

The tears burn again, closer now.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers thickly.

“I’m sure you are,” Hannibal says. “But the worst is yet to come. Do you know what it is?”

Will shakes his head.

“Are you certain?” The cane continues its pitter-patter _tap tap tap_ , and he can’t get it out of his head.

“I don’t know,” Will says. It’s an easy admission. There’s no veneer of expertise to maintain here—Hannibal gives direction, Will follows them as best he can.

Except when he doesn’t.

“You brought yourself to orgasm,” Hannibal says. It sounds suddenly like his larynx has been rubbed against sandpaper, almost a growl. “Without my express permission.

“Don’t you know by now—you belong to me?”

Will can only breathe.

“Eleven strokes, for each minute you took for yourself.” Will consciously tries to loosen his joints, remembers that it’s easier with follow-through. Like combat, or shooting. “You may count if you wish. We will begin when you are ready.”

As always, he debates withholding his readiness, refusing punishment, but the part that is certain that Hannibal can outwait him wins. “Ready,” he says.

A pause. There is no telltale swish, just silence until there’s a vivid line of pain high across his ass, three finger-widths from his tailbone. “One,” he gasps, grasping at instinct.

_My name is Will Graham._

“Two—”

_I’m in Baltimore, Maryland._

“Three—!”

He lets out a hoarse shout, the sickly lovechild of a groan and a scream. Every square inch of nerve turns to thorns in the narrow red stripes across his skin, and the tears come unbidden, hot tumult. Hannibal never hits the same spot twice, but the pain, the _pain_ , it radiates like the sun, like whiskey on a bitter night.

“Four—”

His body has finally acquiesced to sensation, swaying forward with each stroke. Each is laid carefully beneath the other, the agony ever brighter. Old throbs merge with new hissing stings, and he can taste salt in his mouth as he sobs _five, six_ , and _seven._ He can hear the floorboards as Hannibal shifts his weight.

His body can’t pull in air fast enough to fuel his exultant release, it feels like sublimation, like he’s being transformed, ribcage unfastening to let the blood spatters go. The white hands of corpses are gone; they disappear in the blissful white of simplicity. There is nothing here but his body and time, measured evenly in discipline. “Don’t move too much,” Hannibal says. His voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away, and Will registers rather slowly. “You’re being so good for me.” The last latch comes free, and the murky bog of fear dissipates with a dying sigh. A deep breath (stay still)—

_Eight._

_Nine._

_Ten._

There is a ringing in his ears that makes him lose his balance, hands slipping on the couch, damp with sweat.

“You’re being so good for me.”

It sounds like a threat, and the silent part of his mind wants to bolt. Instead he draws in a gulping breath, tears turning cold against his cheeks, and positions himself correctly once last time. He shivers adamantly when he feels the flexible press of the cane against the back of his thighs. Readies himself—

Pain erupts, white hot and excruciating, against the soles of his feet. He can’t even make a sound, eyes flying open and body arching to deepen the smile his body makes, toes pointing in a useless attempt at defense, curling like clam’s tongues. The tendons in his neck burn with overextension, but it’s nothing compared to the scalding _agony_ —

“ _Thank you_!” he screams into the void.

Then he slumps to his elbows, pressing his face into the couch because now he’s allowed to, his body racked with aftershocks, he’s borne what he deserved—

There’s something missing. Even as he feels the dip in the couch as Hannibal sits by him, gentling a firm hand between his shoulder blades.

“L-le-l—” He can’t find his mouth.

“Beautiful boy,” Hannibal says. “Breathe with me. You did so well. You’re so good for me.”

Will shakes his head resolutely, eyes still flickering to adjust to reality. “L—l—”

“Will.” Hannibal’s hand is good and warm as it snakes underneath his jaw. Pressing two fingers.

 _Checking my pulse_ , Will registers dully. It’s the first stumbling coherent thought, and finally—“Eleven,” he says.

Hannibal stops moving, and his jaw snaps shut with an audible click. Then he tugs Will slowly off the couch to sit on the floor. It’s cool and nice under his body, which thrums with heat. He seats himself so Will is kneeling between his legs, and frames Will’s face with his enveloping hands. So gentle, those hands that delivered pain and pleasure both, choosing tenderness as he examines the way tears still cling to Will’s eyelashes. “Sublime,” he insists. “Beatific. How your body sings for me, Will.” The pain still licks at him like leaping flames, but the hell he will endure for a little heaven. “Had even Handel composed a tribute to the carnal sins of the flesh, he could not touch you for grace.”

Will’s mouth is still a little slack, but he wants to smile. The warm wash of Hannibal’s praise, the steadiness of his hands, the burning pain in his legs and feet. It’s a chorus, a harmony of sensations to bring the teacup together. He almost likes these moments best, when he can see himself as Hannibal sees him, when he can believe. This is real. This is true. This is the earth.

Hannibal’s hands run down his chest to rub and pinch at one nipple, then the other. He tilts his head in inquiry.

Will can only nod. Hannibal leans to mouth at his ear, his neck, and Will shivers as he feels Hannibal’s hair tickle his face.

“Uhm,” he manages. The alto of arousal joins the choir, slow and vital. A low hum, growing louder as he feels Hannibal’s tongue, warm and wet against the shell of his ear, clever fingers on his cock. “Ah. More. Please.”

“I would like to watch you.”

_Performative._

So in a coda, Will spits into his palm and begins to touch himself, although this time there are no interferences. He can see Hannibal sitting above him, erection plain in his wool trousers. He has bite his lip for the thousandth time against asking to touch—he only wants to see, watch him fall apart—

The thought is enough to set him off. He imagines Hannibal’s cock, hot in his mouth, the weight of it resting against his throat. The brutal noises of desire and wet saliva as he imagines Hannibal fucking his face, fingering him wide open to thrust inside, or just to keep him open and desperate—

“ _Please_ ,” Will moans, voice hoarse with screams. “Please, may I—”

Hannibal lunges forward to curl one hand steadily against the back of Will’s neck like a brace. The other wraps leisurely around Will’s neck; he can feel each individual finger take hold—and then Hannibal pushes _up._

“ _No._ Have you not learned your lesson?”

Will looks at him wild-eyed, lungs clutching for oxygen. Hannibal only clenches harder.

“You will not,” Hannibal says, looking him straight in the eyes as Will struggles to breathe. “Unless my hand is on your throat.” Just as suddenly, he lets go and air is available to him, and Will swallows it greedily. The pressure builds as his hand squeezes along his cock, arousal singing her aria—he shifts and the back of his thighs abruptly _sting_ —

“Han—”

His plea is cut off as Hannibal chokes him again, fingers coiling tighter and tighter. Will’s body fights; his mind surrenders. The airlessness is almost painful, razor blades blooming in his lungs, black spots speckling his vision—

His body arcs as he comes, hard, one hand scrabbling to clutch at Hannibal’s knee as his hips thrust into empty air, pleasure devouring him entirely.

The hands on his throat ease, and he’s just gaining enough breath back when his face is whipped to the side by a sharp slap.

“Dirty boy,” Hannibal says. “Clean up your mess.”

Will bends, and can’t help but smile as he licks the leather clean. 

 


End file.
